


Face Down

by high_functioning_sociopath



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abused Stiles Stilinski, Abusive Jackson Whittemore, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Detective Derek Hale, Domestic Violence, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lawyer Jackson Whittemore, M/M, Mild Gore, Past Character Death, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-08-10 19:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20140738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/high_functioning_sociopath/pseuds/high_functioning_sociopath
Summary: He keeps it to himself. His dirty little secret, soothing his bruises with aloe vera and hiding behind excuses if his friends notice him wincing. It’s amazing how clumsy his friends believe he is, constantly walking into things hard enough to leave marks.Stiles is in a bad situation, but he hides it well. Or, he thought he did, until an all too observant detective moves in next door and asks for some coffee.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shattered Façade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2619881) by [kylar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylar/pseuds/kylar). 

> I actually got the inspiration for this from [Shattered Façade by kylar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2619881/chapters/5842241). (That's my first time every embedding anything, so if it actually works I will be super proud of myself lol.) You should check it out if you're in the AoT/SNK fandom :3 it's in first person, while this is in third, and obviously the content will be different as I'm not here to plagiarize.
> 
> In regards to the rape/non-con element: as of now, it is only mentioned, not shown. I will absolutely let you know if that changes, and I'll update with any other elements I think might be triggering if any come along. So as of now, it's just that, plus the graphic physical violence element, as well as hurtful words, possibly in the land of verbal abuse. I'm not here to trick anyone, so please do know what you're getting into before reading this.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Stiles knows better. His dad had been sheriff, for Christ’s sake, he knows he’s supposed to go to the police. But also...his dad had been sheriff. He knows what it means to throw around accusations, how hard it can be on the complainant. Revictimitzation, Sheriff Stilinski had called it many times in an angry rant about the system.

So he keeps it to himself. His dirty little secret, soothing his bruises with aloe vera and hiding behind excuses if his friends notice him wincing. It’s amazing how clumsy his friends believe he is, constantly walking into things hard enough to leave marks.

He’s still on this train of thought when the door opens and shuts, a familiar voice calling out to him.

“In the kitchen!” he calls, grabbing a spatula and cutting through the fresh lasagna he’d just pulled out of the oven. It’s only a few moments before he feels arms snake around his waist and a kiss press into the space where his shoulder meets his neck. He shudders.

“Hey,” Jackson says softly. “Missed you today.”

“Well, sugar lump,” Stiles drawls, “I’m sure this dinner will more than make up for it. Come on, go sit.”

Jackson presses another kiss to his shoulder before moving out of the kitchen and taking his seat at the head of the dining room table. It’s the logical choice, of course, the breadwinner taking the head. The fact that Stiles had been forbidden from finding a job himself didn’t factor in at all.

“You need to focus on school, a job will only distract you,” Jackson had said. Which made sense at the time, but then Stiles graduated and it became, “I make plenty of money, why put that stress on yourself for no reason?” and “Damn it, Stiles, if you bring it up one more time, no one will hire you because you won’t have any teeth.”

In hindsight, that last one should probably have tipped him off.

So Stiles takes his seat on Jackson’s left (it was closer to the kitchen than his right, Stiles tells himself, it didn’t matter that when Jackson brought friends over he said stuff like “right hand man” about anyone but him), sets the lasagna on the table and careful begins serving Jackson first, then himself. 

“How was work?” Stiles asks after they had both taken a few bites.

Jackson shrugs. “The usual. Rich clients trying to wriggle their way out of consequences, which with me as their lawyer they always do.” Oh, yeah, Jackson is a lawyer, a fancy high-powered one at that. Another reason why Stiles feels so wrong pushing the issue; Jackson would probably get away with it even if he tried. “Some desperate pauper--” (Stiles decidedly didn’t flinch) “--tried to get me to take her case pro bono. As if,” he scoffs, taking a drink as if to wash the bitter taste of  _ poor _ out of his mouth.

“What was the case about?”

“Something about her job skimming from her paychecks pretending it was more taxes, so she couldn’t make rent,” he shrugs and takes another bite of lasagna. “As if that’s my problem.”

“She sounds like she really needs help,” Stiles says nonchalantly. “I mean, could one pro bono case really hurt that much?”

Jackson pauses, directing his eyes on Stiles. He knows that look; he’s pushing it. “Not taking cases for free is the reason we can afford the mortgage on this house, or did you conveniently forget about your own home?”

“Of course not,” Stiles quickly replies, trying to sound as sweet as possible, a gentle but utterly fake smile plastered on his face. “But it’s not like we don’t have plenty of disposable income as it is.” Of course, Stiles isn’t allowed to spend anything more than five or ten dollars without permission, but that’s neither here nor there. “One case can’t really make a difference.”

“Taking a pro bono case means constantly getting badgered to take pro bono cases.” His voice lowers dangerously. Stiles knows he should shut up, but, well, that never was his strong suit.

“So you could make it a thing. Like, you take one pro bono case every few months, and if you reach the quota then you just tell people that.”

Jackson stands in one swift motion, and Stiles is sure that the force would have knocked the chair over if it was made from anything other than the heavy wood it was. Then Stiles is grabbed tightly by the arm and dragged away from the table before being thrown harshly at the wall. He winces.

“Why must you make everything so difficult?” Jackson growls, his fingers digging painfully into Stiles’ upper arms. When Stiles doesn’t answer, he grabs him by the hair to jerk his head up, and Stiles vaguely wonders if you could bleed from having your hair ripped out like this. Instead, he groans. “You think you can sit at home and think about playing hero, well I’ve got some news for you. You’re lucky I keep you here because the world would laugh as it chewed you up and spit out your bones.” The venom in his voice isn’t lost on Stiles, but that doesn’t keep him from glaring right back at the man towering above him. Well, it feels like he’s towering, but Stiles knows that in reality Jackson is an inch shorter than him.

His hair is released and Stiles breathes out in relief. 

_ He didn’t used to be like this _ , Stiles tells himself,  _ he changed once, he could easily change again _ . But deep in his mind, he knows that not a word in that statement is true.

God, when had his life become...this?

*

“Hey batter batter, hey batter batter, suh-wing!”

“Stiles, we’re playing basketball.” Scott rolls his eyes as he dances around Stiles to toss the ball into the basket. He grins as it falls through and bounces back to him. “Six-zip. Care to admit defeat yet?”

“Then it should be all the more distracting! But you know, you only win because of your insane reflexes,” Stiles says, reaching for the ball which is promptly held above Scott’s head.

“Hey, it’s not my fault I have a penchant for sports and you lean toward the smarter side.”

“It is  _ entirely _ your fault that puberty hit you like a ton of bricks and I turned into this. Now come on, let me beat you at gun-to-gun combat so I can restore a little bit of pride.” He turns on his heel and heads into the house, his friend following close behind.

Jackson is at work, and it was only with a lot of luck that Scott had the day off, and Stiles has to admit, it’s nice not having to worry about how his one and only would react to Scott being there. Sure, Jackson was mostly fine while Scott was around, but when they were alone his distaste for the athletic boy was abundantly clear, usually in the form of Stiles being slammed into the door or a couple punches to the gut.

So, yeah, Stiles is forever grateful for this day of peace. 

“Stiles, are you okay?”

Okay, maybe not  _ too _ grateful.

“Duh. Why?”

Scott shrugs, looking extremely uncomfortable. Good. “Allison thinks you’re scared of something. She said you’re always kind of twitchy and she doesn’t believe that it’s because of your dad’s death.”

Ah, Allison. Sweet girl, but way too new to the group to be thinking about butting her nose in Stiles’ business.

“Well, you’ve done your part and you can tell her that I am one hundred percent perfect.  _ After _ I kick your ass in COD.”

Scott seems pleased with the out and turns to the TV screen. It isn’t like Scott doesn’t care about him, they’re best friends after all. But he really doesn’t like prying into Stiles’ shit ever since that time Jackson had been too rough and Stiles couldn’t sit without a visible wince. He’d asked then, and, panicked and annoyed, Stiles had gone into excruciating detail about the hot animal sex he and Jackson had had the night before. Lies, of course, because how could he tell his best friend that his boyfriend had gone in with no prep, practically using the blood from his tearing as lube, all because he thought Stiles was fucking Scott.

No. This is his secret, his cross to bear. But, as the thought of Allison floats through his brain, he can’t help but think that he must be a terrible liar if she noticed anything. And if he was that bad of a liar, what did that say about his oblivious friends?

*

Stiles is in the kitchen, washing dishes and humming softly while Jackson relaxes in front of the TV when the doorbell rings. His brows knit in confusion--Jackson hadn’t told him to expect friends, and Stiles’ friends never showed up unannounced--before drying his hands and heading to the door. And oh, man, is he glad he did, because suddenly there was a Greek god standing in front of him. A god who smiled at Stiles when the door opened.

“Hi,” said god greeted. “My name is Derek Hale, I recently moved in next door.”

It takes Stiles a moment to realize that the man has his hand out, but eventually he grabs it and shakes. “Stiles Stilinski. What can I do for you?”

“Honestly, this is kind of embarrassing, but do you have any coffee?” Derek chuckles. “I’ve got an all-nighter tonight and I ran out and can’t get to the store until tomorrow.” He holds up a black thermos that Stiles hadn’t noticed and Stiles smiles.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Come in--” He jumps when his boyfriend’s voice interrupts him.

“What’s going on?” Jackson asks, walking up to next to Stiles and looking annoyed. Great.

“I was just asking if you guys had any coffee I could use. I’m Derek.”

Jackson ignores the proffered hand, instead snaking his own around the back of Stiles’ neck, protective--no,  _ possessive _ . He rubs his thumb against his neck and to anyone else it might look loving, but Stiles can feel the threat beneath his boyfriend’s palm and he shudders slightly.

None of it goes unnoticed by Derek.

“Isn’t it a little late for that much caffeine?” Jackson eventually asks.

“I’m working on a case, probably be an all-nighter. This is exactly what caffeine was invented for, detectives trying to solve their cases,” Derek says matter-of-factly, not backing down even a little under Jackson’s glare. So he’s police. That explains why he’s so damn observant.

“We don’t drink coffee,” Jackson lies. Derek’s eyes flit suspiciously between the two and Stiles worries he’ll break out in a nervous sweat. He knows. Oh god, he knows. How on Earth could he know?

“Stiles said--”

“Stiles was wrong.”

They stare each other down for a while, Jackson’s grip on Stiles’ neck tightening. Eventually, Derek tears his eyes away to look at Stiles, who gives the most convincing smile he can muster under the pressure. A few moments more and Derek seems to give in as a sigh escapes his lips and he pulls out his wallet. “If you ever need anything…” He lets the rest of the sentence hang there as he holds out a business card. Jackson snatches it before Stiles can, earning another glare from Derek. “I’m also in the house at your left. Come by sometime.” He gives Stiles another meaningful glance before turning on his heel and heading down the walkway.

It’s only when the man turns onto the sidewalk that Jackson removes his hand and closes (slams) the door. “What,” he starts tensely, staring at the door as if Derek was still there, offending him with his presence, “was that?”

“That was our new neighbor asking for some coffee, which we most certainly have plenty of,” Stiles snaps with a courage he certainly doesn’t feel. He watches as Jackson’s body becomes rigid before turning to him, his eyes alight with fury. And  _ hello consequences of my actions, didn’t see you there _ . He grabs Stiles tightly by the arms and slams him into the door. Stiles groans as his head hits the wood, but there’s no reprieve before a knee connects with his stomach. He would collapse if not for the death grip on his upper arms, but all he can do now is make pained noises as he tries to catch his breath.

“I saw you making sex eyes at him,” he growls, pulling Stiles forward so he could slam him back again. “Scott not enough for you anymore? How many dicks does your whore ass need, huh?” Stiles stays silent this time, which is apparently the right thing to do because Jackson just continues. “I saw the way he was looking at you, you know. Like a victim. Just what do you think’s gonna happen when you go running into his arms, huh? He’s gonna make a case against me, ditch you, and you’ll have no one. I give you  _ everything _ , Stiles, and it’s about fucking time you started appreciating it.” Another sharp knee to his stomach, but this time the arms disappear and Stiles crumples to the floor, wrapping his arms around himself as he wills the pain to disappear.

When he finally crawls into bed, Jackson is fast asleep.

*

“To Lydia Martin, may twenty-five bring all the humor Spongebob says it will!” Stiles finishes his birthday speech with a flourish, holding out his beer in celebration before bringing it to his lips and taking a big gulp.

“To Lydia!” the group choruses before taking swigs of their own drinks.

“Spongebob, Stiles, really?” Lydia fixes him with a look as he takes his seat and he merely grins at her.

“The best way to celebrate, didn’t you know?”

He can almost hear Jackson’s eye roll beside him. “It wouldn’t hurt to grow up a bit, Stiles.”

Stiles rolls his eyes back. “If I grew up, what excuse would you have to keep up with My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic?”

“None. That’s the whole point.”

“Oh, come on. Hey, back me up here, Scott.” At hearing his name, the man looks from his girlfriend to his best friend.

“Sorry, bud, you’re on your own here,” he says apologetically before turning his attention back to Allison. 

“You naysayers are such party poopers,” Stiles grumbles before taking the last sip of his beer and standing up. “Next round?” The group cheers in response and Stiles makes his way to the bar, ordering various drinks as each of his friends have wildly different tastes. He busies himself with a pen, drawing ridiculous things on a napkin left on the bar until someone speaks.

“He always like that?”

Stiles looks next to him, freezing in place as a familiar face fills his vision. He looks away before his face can heat up. “Yeah, Scott’s the worst. He never backs up my viewing choices.” Stiles isn’t stupid enough to think he had meant Scott, but avoidance seems like the best tactic at the moment.

Derek’s eye roll is as loud as Jackson’s. “I meant the other one. Your boyfriend, I’m assuming?”

“Jackson. Is he always like what?” Mean? Upset? Abusive? Yeah, what the fuck are  _ you _ gonna do about it, he decidedly doesn’t say.

“Dismissive,” Derek states. “Or, if the other night was anything to go by, angry and possessive?”

Stiles flinches. It isn’t as to the point as it could have been, but it is definitely not tactful. “No,” he lies, with the grace of someone who had done it thousands of times before. “He was just in a bad mood.”

“Does he always grab your neck like that when he’s in a bad mood?”

“Jesus, detective, be just a little more obvious, please,” Stiles hisses. He sneaks a glance behind him, but Jackson seems to be focused on his drink (and Lydia, but he’s going to ignore that because Lydia is a good bro and would never betray him like that) so he turns his attention back to Derek. “You know, my dad was a cop. So I know better than to let whatever you think is happening happen.” Lies, lies,  _ lies _ . Stop  _ lying _ .

“Sometimes knowing a cop is exactly the reason people are scared to come forward.” Stiles’ drinks were placed in front of him and Derek takes out his wallet to pay his tab, setting another business card on top of the bills. “In case you never got the first one back. Call me sometime, I don’t sleep.”

Stiles hesitates, his brain warring with everything else. What if Jackson found out? How bad would his punishment be? What if he doesn’t take the card? Would Derek keep pushing, keep making it worse? Eventually, he takes the card and slips it in his pocket without any indication as to whether he would ever look at it again before taking the tray of drinks and heading back to his friends.

He can see Jackson’s murderous glare on him the second he turns around and,  _ shit, how long had he been watching _ ? Studiously ignoring his boyfriend, Stiles places the drinks in front of their respective owners and sits down. He’s barely gotten back into the conversation before he feels a hand on his leg and fingers squeezing hard against his jeans. He hides his wince in a cough; it's going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles makes a plan to get Derek off his trail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank you guys for the awesome comments! I didn't respond to them because I've started feeling awkward about just saying different variations of "thank you!" to everyone, but I still love them and I get so happy every time I get an email about a new comment ^-^ I hope this story continues to live up!

Stiles steps into the tub, wincing as the too-hot water scalds his skin, making him forget about the pain he’d endured just half an hour ago. He slides down until his he’s covered up until his neck and lets out a deep sigh. Jackson  _ hates _ Derek. Stiles knows why, of course: Derek is suspicious, sticking his nose into their relationship to prove his ridiculous theory.

It could be so much worse, though. Stiles had seen the worst while his dad was sheriff, and his situation, while definitely Not Good, simply doesn’t measure up. He’d seen people land in the hospital with shattered bones and severe blood loss, knocking at death’s door. Sure, he’d ended up in the hospital once, but it turned out to only be a fracture and Jackson had felt so bad he cried.  _ Cried _ .

Of course, now, Jackson hasn’t even said so much as sorry in over a year.

Wiping his hands dry on the nearby towel, he grabs his jeans, pulls a small piece of paper out of his pocket before dropping the pants back down. 

_ Beacon Hills Police Department - 99th Precinct _

_ Detective Derek Hale _

_ Office: 213-555-2390 _

_ Cell: 213-555-6162 _

He fiddles with the card for a while, flipping it over in his fingers as he thinks everything through. How had he even known? A hand on the back of your partner’s neck may be a red flag, but it wasn’t exactly abusive. But he’s a detective, maybe he knows the smaller signs, doesn’t have to see bruises or a punch thrown to know.

Or, maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe he has a completely unfounded hunch, maybe he saw violence everywhere in his field and couldn’t not see it in his everyday life.

That’s it. Stiles just has to befriend him, convince him that everything is normal, that Jackson is just overprotective.

His dad’s voice suddenly rings in his head.  _ I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me _ . He pushes it down; his father is the last reminder he needs right now.

Decision made, Stiles gently lifts himself out of the tub, draining the water and drying himself off before putting his clothes back on. He quickly taps the cell number into his phone, pausing for a moment before saving it under Allison. He doesn’t have her number, so there shouldn’t be any confusion or texting the wrong person.

He pads downstairs softly and slips on his shoes. Closing the front door with a soft click, Stiles makes his way down the walkway to the house next door. 

He only gives a few quick raps before his brain catches up with him again and he starts to panic. Can he even do this? Can he convince a trained detective who’s already suspicious that nothing was happening? What if Stiles only ends up making it worse? He’s moments away from making a break for it when the door opens. 

Derek stands in front of him in sweatpants and a tank top, the lack of material making his well-developed muscles and perfectly sculpted figure painfully obvious. Stiles swallows. This man is going to be the death of him.

"Stiles? Derek asks, voice laced with confusion.

This was it. No backing out now, or he would be even more suspicious. He steels himself and smiles. "I’m bored," he says simply, not waiting for an invitation before pushing past Derek and inside the man's house.

It’s a nice house. Surprisingly nice, in fact, considering the average detective’s salary, and Derek definitely doesn’t seem like a dirty cop who pockets money or takes bribes. "Got any games?" He turns to the man, who still seems utterly perplexed, and sighs. "Come ooon," he whines. "Jackson is asleep and I'm tired of entertaining myself."

Mentioning the boyfriend seems to wake Derek up from his trance. "Oh, yeah. Let me see what I've got." He walks into another room and Stiles plops himself in front of the TV in the living room to peep at his DVDs. It’s a nice variety, action, comedy, romance, sci-fi. He grins when he sees the case for Hot Fuzz. So Derek likes cop comedies, huh? Well, who doesn’t like Hot Fuzz?

He sits there for a few minutes until Derek comes in with a game box in each hand. “I have Parcheesi and Battleship.”

Stiles scrunches his nose up in distaste. “Parcheesi? Really?”

Derek shrugs and sets the offending game on the table. “My family didn’t do a lot of board games. Battleship it is.” He sits down in front of the couch and Stiles scooches over so he’s in front of Derek, leaving a few feet of space between them as Derek hands him his hunk of plastic before setting up his own.

Stiles used to cheat at Battleship. Of course he did, it was exciting watching the light die in his friends’ eyes as they wondered how the managed to only hit one ship, because Stiles had stacked all of them on top of each other.

He decides against that now, setting up his boats in random spots as Derek presumably does the same. He can’t handle the silence for long, though, so after a few moments he speaks up. “Did you always want to be a detective?”

Derek shrugs a shoulder slightly. “Not really. I didn’t know what I wanted to do for a long time, ended up in community college to figure it out, because apparently spending thousands of dollars to be aimless is what people do.”

“Your parents didn’t mind?”

He snorts. “Hell, my parents pushed it. The Hale family was in no way going to have a son who didn’t go to college. It was hard enough convincing them that community college was better than a city or state one to figure out what I wanted to do.”

“How did you finally figure it out?” He asks as he finishes setting up his boats. “E3.”

“Miss. It’s a rough story. B7.”

“Hit, what the fuck?” Derek merely smirks at him. “My dad was sheriff, so for a long time I thought I would be too. It seemed like the logical thing to do. F8”

“Miss. He retired?”

Stiles shakes his head, pursing his lips as he refuses to meet Derek’s eyes. “No, he died about four years ago. Shot by a dumb kid who didn’t know what he was getting himself into.”

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Derek says softly, and Stiles looks up to meet his eyes. He seems genuinely sympathetic, a look he hasn’t seen on his so-called lover for a long time. He looks back down.

“Yeah. My mom was already dead, and I didn’t have a job and couldn’t find anything above minimum wage so I couldn’t make the mortgage payments on the house and it got repossessed. That’s when I moved in with Jackson.” He doesn’t look up again, not wanting to see Derek’s face when at the mention of Jackson. “We’d been together since high school. Asked me to prom, which was a huge shock to everyone because it was essentially his coming-out moment.” He chuckles at the memory, a soft smile on his face as he remembers days long gone. “He was arrogant, conceited, but he was good to me. I was happy.”

“And now?”

Stiles looks up once again to see Derek watching him intensely. Waiting. Hoping. It brings him back to the present, reminds him why he had come here in the first place. He plasters a fake smile on and sees Derek’s hope falter. “Well, it has been, what, eight years? Of course it’s not like it used to be. Doesn’t make it bad.”

Derek nods slowly. “And the hand on your neck? Looked hard enough to leave bruises.”

_ Jackson doesn't leave bruises visible _ , he doesn’t say. “He’s protective, he didn’t know who the large stranger at his door was. You could have been a serial killer for all we knew.”

He can tell Derek isn’t buying it, but what else could he do? His words are all he has.

“Anyway, it’s your turn.”

Derek watches him a little while longer before looking back at his board. “B6.”

“Well, it’s easy to guess where the rest of the ship is once you hit it once,” Stiles grumbles, sticking a red peg in the space like it had betrayed him. “C1.”

“Miss.” He smugly puts a white peg in his board. “B5.”

“Mother fudger, you sunk my battleship…” Stiles has to concentrate if he’s going to kick the enemy’s ass at this. He takes a deep breath. “A10.”

“I think you already know that’s a miss. F2.”

“What the fuck?” Stiles hisses. “You’re cheating. You haven’t missed a single shot yet. Tell me your secrets.”

Derek raises his eyebrows, a smirk playing at his lips before he motions behind Stiles with his head. Stiles twists his head to see what he’s looking at and groans. A mirror. He turns back to Derek, the smirk having only widened. “Big old cheater. I should have known you wouldn’t play fair.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he gives a soft apology before pulling it into his hand. Jackson’s name stares at him accusingly and he holds back a shiver as he swipes over the green button and puts it to his ear. “Hey--”

“Where are you?” Jackson interrupts him angrily.

He gives Derek a smile before lifting himself up and heading into another room so Derek won’t hear him. “Oh, I couldn’t sleep so I went for a walk. I’m close, though.”

“Jesus fuck, Stiles, don’t you  _ ever  _ do that.”

“I’m s--”

“Just come home.” The phone beeps with the telltale ending of the call. With a dejected sigh, he turns around, startling when Derek is right in front of him.

“Thanks for Battleship, but I gotta get home now,” he says with a smile.

“A walk?” Derek questions.

Stiles sighs again. “You know, it’s rude to eavesdrop.”

“Stiles, come on.” Derek runs a hand on his face tiredly. “I know something is going on, domestic violence is literally my  _ job. _ I can help you.”

He falters. A DV detective? Well, that certainly explains... _ everything _ . “There’s nothing to help, Derek. I’m fine.”

“Then why did you come to a relative stranger’s house at midnight?”

_ So you wouldn’t realize that I’m far from fine _ . “I told you, I was bored.”

“Stiles…” he starts.

“Look,  _ detective _ , I don’t know what you think is going on, but I don’t need you or your dumb badge. A protective hand on the neck is  _ nothing. _ ” He’s angry now, at himself more than Derek. Derek could help. The longer it went on, the more it escalated, and he isn’t sheltered; he knows how many of these cases ended up.

“If it was so protective, then why did you look terrified the moment he came to the door?”

“Good night, Derek.” He pushes past the detective and heads to the door, ignoring whatever the other was saying as he set a brisk pace for his house.

As soon as his door closes behind him, he realizes he probably should have savored the freedom as a hand grasps his neck, using the force to slam him into the door. “J-Jackson--”

“Where were you?” he spits, close enough that Stiles can smell the faint scent of beer on his breath. 

“I told you, I couldn’t sleep so I went for a walk.” He’s pulled forward only to be slammed back again and he groans as his head hits the wood.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” Jackson hisses, and all Stiles can think is  _ probably not as dangerous as you _ . “I have enemies, Stiles, anything could have happened to you. You could have been kidnapped, or killed.”

“Enemies? You’re a lawyer, not a mob boss,” Stiles hisses back, narrowly avoiding rolling his eyes. It probably won’t help his situation. Apparently he doesn’t need help not helping, though, because Jackson growls before letting his fist connect with Stiles’ face. That’s new, Stiles thinks with a groan, he’s usually so careful to avoid the places Stiles can’t hide. “What is your problem?” It doesn’t come out as threatening as he intends, too focused on the sharp pain blooming around his eye. “You’re mad that I could have gotten hurt so you hurt me? How fucked up does your brain have to be for that to make sense? Admit it, you’re just mad that I didn’t ask permission and hurt your stupid little ego.”

Jackson’s eyes flash with anger before another fist connects with Stiles’ cheek, sending him falling to the floor with a cry. Jackson kneels beside him, taking Stiles’ face roughly between his fingers, angering the forming bruises and jerking his head to look at him. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “You are  _ nothing _ without me. I took you in, I gave you  _ everything _ , and it would be a lot better for you if you would just be  _ fucking grateful _ for once instead of being such a  _ whiny little bitch _ .” He lets go of Stiles face, Stiles letting out an involuntary breath of relief as he’s released, and stands. “Grab some peas and get to bed.” He walks away, heading up the steps as though everything was perfect and like he hadn’t just physically attacked his boyfriend. Stiles wants nothing more than to tell him no. To say “Go fuck yourself” and leave.

It’s a fantasy, though, and Stiles pushes himself off the floor, grabs the frozen peas from the freezer, and goes upstairs to share a bed with the abuser he’s supposed to love.

As he lay on the soft mattress, peas pressed to his swollen face and Jackson snoring beside him, he thinks of Derek. Of the man who could save him from this hellhole, who  _ wants _ to rescue him. 

He falls asleep imagining someone loving him the way he truly deserves.

*

Stiles wakes to an empty bed and a face full of water, courtesy of the defrosted bag of peas. The clock on the bedside table tells him it’s nearly 8:30 and he lets out a sigh before tossing the peas on the floor and rolling off the bed. He pads down the hall to the bathroom to wash his face, nearly jumping out of his skin when he hears the doorbell ring. Heart racing, he runs down the stairs, his brain desperately trying to figure out what he could have done wrong for Jackson to have come back when he would have barely left. 

As soon as he looks through the peephole, a relieved breath escapes his lips. Derek. Of course it wasn’t Jackson, he was being paranoid for no reason. He closes his hand around the doorknob and--

Shit. His face.

The doorbell rings again, and  _ fuck _ , Stiles doesn’t have time to figure out how he can hide it so he opens the door and quickly turns to walk toward the kitchen.

“Hey,” Derek says as the door closes, and Stiles must be imagining the nerves in his voice. 

“Morning,” Stiles replies, busying himself with making coffee so he doesn’t have to face the detective.

“Look, Stiles, I wanted to apologize about last night,” he starts with a sigh. “As a cop, I see crime everywhere, and especially in my field, I see red flags everywhere. Sometimes they mean nothing and I was probably worried for no reason. I shouldn’t have assumed the worst right off the bat.”

Stiles is trying to be slow with putting together his coffee, but all they have is instant and it’s finished all too soon, so he finds himself pointlessly stirring it with a spoon, praying for Derek to leave, to not see him. “Thanks, that’s, uhm… I really appreciate it.”

There’s a pointed pause and he realizes he’s been stirring his coffee far too long. But if he stops, if he starts drinking it, he can do that while looking at Derek. There’d be no excuse to keep his back to him, to keep him from seeing--

“Stiles, can you look at me?” His voice is measured, and all Stiles can think is  _ fuck, he knows, he knows, he  _ knows _ and he’s gonna force me out and leave me to rot on the streets and _ \-- “Stiles?”

Well, nothing to do now. If he didn’t turn around and Derek found out about it anyway, it would prove he’s hiding something. Now all he can do is lean into it and hope for the best. So he turns, coffee cup in hand, and smiles. “Yeah?”

Stiles hasn’t seen his face yet, hasn’t so much as glanced at his reflection since last night, but he knows he must look awful, because Derek clenches his fists and his jaw and his eyes flash with anger. He flinches as memories of Jackson’s eyes last night come roaring back into his head, because they had had the same flash in them, the same rage. But this time, it isn’t directed at him, and the thought is somewhat calming.

“Damn it, Stiles. I thought I was wrong, I  _ wanted  _ to be wrong. And I bet now you’re gonna try to tell me you got mugged in the fifty feet between our houses.”

He gives his best bemused look, before letting realization cross his features. “Oh, this?” He gestures at his face. “I left a cabinet open and smacked right into it. Whoops.”

Derek doesn’t falter for a second, merely shakes his head in disbelief. “Yeah, my sister used to say the same thing.”

Stiles does falter then, his eyes locking on Derek’s in surprise. “Your sister?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles waits for him to elaborate, but Derek says nothing, just holds his gaze, his jaw set tight. Eventually, Stiles sighs. “I think you should go.”

“Stiles--”

“ _ Go _ .”

Derek watches him, frustration etched onto his features, and Stiles can clearly see the moment he gives in, his posture slumping ever so slightly before he turns to the door. He hesitates with his hand on the knob, but leaves without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to write chapter 3 in Derek's POV, but it's not getting me very far, so we'll see what happens with that.
> 
> Oh, and I put a tiny little reference to my favorite cop show in there, did y'all notice?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...long time no see? ^^'
> 
> So I had _planned_ on updating this weekly, but then a week passed after the second chapter and I realized...I'm a ridiculously slow writer lmao then time kept passing and then family drama BS happened and I had no motivation for a bit. Sorry about that. BUT i have returned, and I don't have plans to abandon this fic (though I guess no one ever does), so if I disappear for a bit it probably just means I'm being slow again. Either way, I hope this chapter was worth the wait! I'm actually pretty happy with it, hopefully you are too!
> 
> Warning for minor non-con at the end
> 
> The pajamas vaguely described in this chapter are actually the pajamas I wore writing that scene lmao write what you know, right?

Derek’s mind is still on Stiles when he gets into work, and he slumps into his chair with a sigh.

“Something on your mind, partner?” Erica asks, not glancing up from her paperwork.

“I need a plan.”

Her eyebrows raise and she looks at him, taking a sip of her coffee. “I like plans. What’s up?”

“My neighbor. His boyfriend is beating him.”

“I see… And I’m guessing he’s denying it?”

“Saw him this morning with bruises on his face, said he walked into a cabinet. God  _ damn it _ !” Derek punches his desk, regretting it immediately as he tries to shake the pain out of his hand. When the pain fades, he rubs the hand over his face tiredly.

Erica purses her lips before speaking. “I’m sorry, D, but you know as well as I do that unless he wants to come forward, there’s nothing we can do.”

Derek sighs and gives her a pointed look. “Yes,” he says slowly, “hence the need for a  _ plan _ .”

Erica shrugs, unaffected by Derek’s glares after years of working together. “Okay. But why?”

“What do you mean  _ why _ ?” he hisses, and the look he’s giving her is probably similar to one he’d give if she had just grown an extra ear. Hell, she may as well have. “He’s in trouble, and we’re officers of the law, that’s why.”

She shrugs again, going back to her paperwork as though they were discussing what to eat for lunch. Except if they were actually discussing lunch, he would have her undivided attention. “Can’t save everyone, D, you know that. Why are you hyper focused on someone who doesn’t want help?”

“It doesn’t matter why, will you help me or not?” She raises her eyebrows and gives a very clear  _ Bitch, don’t play me _ look that has him sighing. “He’s just...good. He deserves so much better and I want to help.”

Erica watches him for a few moments before widening her eyes. “Derek Hale, no.”

“What?”

“You have a crush!”

“What? I barely know him!”

She rolls her eyes. “Uh, yeah, that’s why it’s a  _ crush _ . You’re walking into very dangerous territory here.”

“This is not about a crush, Erica! I couldn’t save Cora, and I’ll be damned if I let another person slip through my fingers like this!”

She blinks. “Cora? That’s what this is about? Derek, I thought--”

“It doesn’t matter,” he mumbles, slumping against his chair. “Are you gonna help me or not?”

“Fine. But there’s really only one thing you can do: be there. Be his friend. Make it  _ indirectly _ clear through you, you life, your experiences, that what’s happening isn’t okay and that it’s not an all or nothing situation. Does he have a job?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then he probably thinks he has no option but to stay. Show him that’s not true.”

A hint of a smile twitches at Derek’s lips. “I knew I could count on you.”

“Shut up and get to work.”

*

Stiles’ head hurts. No, that’s too nice. His head is fucking  _ pounding _ and he just wants to stop existing until his body gives itself a damn break.

He takes too much ibuprofen--not enough to be harmful, but enough that he just might possibly start getting that floaty feeling hospital drugs give you (he doesn’t know if it’s even possible with over the counter painkillers, but fuck it, he’s gonna  _ try _ )--and flops onto the bed, intending to do shit-all for the day.

Fuck, he’s pissed. Not at Derek, though. No, that would be too fucking easy, so instead he’s pissed at everything but. Maybe he should make a list.

One: Jackson. The fucker. Who gave him the right to treat Stiles like this? Who told him it was okay to throw him around and not even have the decency to seem regretful about it? Worst part was, he used to be. He used to hate himself whenever he “lost control.” And that had somehow made it okay. Not from any logical point of view, but from Stiles. Because Jackson had loved him. Jackson didn’t  _ want _ to hurt him, and he could use that. Could hold onto that knowledge like a lifeline, no matter how weak a tether it may have been.

But, no. Now Jackson hates him. Jackson doesn’t care how much pain Stiles is in, ever. He’s effectively cut him off from independence, made it so he has nowhere to go and no money to get anywhere, and he’s  _ angry _ . He may have been stupid before, but better stupid and relatively content than living in this hole of despair he’s officially dug himself.

Two: his friends. Scott, if he’s really pointing fingers. They’d been best friends since childhood, and Stiles is  _ not _ a good liar if you know him. Or anything about people. He rambles, he awkwardly switches topics, he’ll even do that weird hissy  _ “just drop it” _ thing people on TV do when they’re hiding something. And yet, he’s tricked them somehow. Halle-fuckin’-lujah.

Three: his dad. Yeah, that’s a mean one, but fuck it, Stiles is gonna roll with it right now. 

He was just a kid in every way except legal. He was the only family Stiles had left, and he died. And because he was just an of-age child, he’d had no way to keep the house and no one willing and able to help him. And with nowhere else to go, he’d let Jackson take him in. Apparently constant exposure to Stiles changes a person, because  _ damn _ , what a change.

His dad wouldn’t stand for it. He would have dragged Stiles away from the relationship the second he got admitted to the hospital. Maybe even earlier. He never would have believed the weal excuses Stiles gave everyone else, and he never would have let him get hurt again.

Stiles would have been pissed, because his dumb ass had loved Jackson, but he would have been safe.

Four (and arguably the only real one): himself.

Fuck himself, really. He could have stopped this a million times before it got here. Hell, Jackson works full time, he could have at least gotten a part-time job, so long as he made sure his own hours overlapped with his and that he didn’t slack on his “Jackson approved” duties, and then he’d have money. He could leave. But no, he’d been too afraid of someone finding out. Because if anyone they knew found out, it would inevitably get back to Jackson, because people in healthy, happy relationships don’t hide that shit from their partners.

Of course, if his dad heard him talk like that, he would say some bullshit about ‘victim mentality,’ but his dad could go to hell, because he’s  _ not fucking here _ . Fuck him for dying. Fuck his friends for being so oblivious. Fuck Jackson for being a piece of shit. Fuck Derek for being the one person trying to give him what he’s always hoped for, and fuck himself for his entire fucking life.

Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ .

He needs a nap, he thinks. Maybe when he wakes up, he’ll be calmer. Maybe he won’t wake up at all. Guess he’ll find out.

Stiles isn’t sure he even can fall asleep with his brain flicked up so high, but he must, because the next thing he knows, a hand is gently carding through his hair. It’s the nicest, softest thing he’s felt in ages, and he leans into the touch, humming contentedly.

“You awake, babe?” Jackson asks softly and Stiles stiffens under him before turning over onto his other side to face his boyfriend. There’s a smile on his face that Stiles doesn’t understand, doesn’t know if he wants to. “How long have you been asleep?”

Stiles’ eyes glance at the clock on the nightstand, which reads 6:14. “Four hours? I think?” He can hear the sleepy slur in his voice and he clears his throat nervously. “I didn’t make dinner. ‘M sorry. I can go start now, fix something quick.”

Jackson shrugs a shoulder. “We can order Chinese or something. How’s your face feel?”

Stiles instinctively raises his hand to his shiner, wincing when his fingers brush the tender flesh. He doesn’t answer, not knowing what response will ruin the strange but pleasant way his boyfriend is acting. Jackson frowns before leaning down to place a kiss on his lips. It’s soft for once, and despite Stiles’ reservations, he melts at the feeling. Yeah, this was why he’d fallen for Jackson. This was how he’d gotten in so deep, because Jackson didn’t used to hit him. Jackson used to love him, and he loved to show it. Loved to kiss him, loved to listen to him, loved to be around him.

He pulls away from Stiles and continues running his fingers through his short locks. “I really hope you’ve learned your lesson. I don’t enjoy messing up your face, it’s a rather nice one unharmed.” Stiles painfully notices that he didn’t say he doesn’t enjoy hurting him. It’s like a knife twisting in his gut, and he’s no longer sure he prefers this over cold, distant, angry Jackson. At least there’s no mixed signals with that one.

Accepting Stiles’ silence, Jackson adds, “By the way, the guys are coming over at eight. You should put something better on. I’ll go order the food.” He places a kiss on Stiles’ forehead and pads out of the room, leaving Stiles alone.

Well, there goes his night. Jackson’s friends coming over is not Stiles’ idea of fun. Danny is okay, never really pays too much attention to him and is mostly polite. Matt’s creepy, though, and a shit person. Stiles is pretty sure he knows about the situation, and he seems to take some kind of sick pleasure in flirting with Stiles and riling Jackson up. And, of course, Stiles is always the one who gets blamed. Lucky him.

Stiles’ mind floats to Derek. What kind of boyfriend is he? You hear stories all the time about cops who beat their partners.  _ Abusers are attracted to power, _ his dad used to say, which was why it was all the more important to him that good people join. Most cops were good people, and Sheriff Stilinski wanted to make sure it stayed that way. Hell, it would ruin his whole day if he knowingly came across a bad egg. Stiles smiles at the memory. Yeah, his dad was good people.

Besides, Derek didn’t seem the type to enjoy causing harm to anyone. He had such an intense reaction to Stiles’ pain, after all, that said something, right?

And what about friendship? Is he a good friend? If one of his friends was beating on their lover, would Derek ignore it? Stiles is positive he wouldn’t toy with them like Matt, but maybe he’s loyal to his friends and wouldn’t pay it any attention.

No, that doesn’t sound like him either, especially not after this morning. He had mentioned his sister, after all, and heavily implied that her situation was similar to Stiles’. He wonders if that was why Derek had gone into the domestic violence field, or if it was coincidental. It’s none of his business, of course, but the curiosity lingers.

His sister, huh… What happened to her, he wonders. Derek had said she  _ used _ to say the same things, so, one way or another, she’s not in that relationship anymore. There’s only two real options from there.

A shudder goes through him. Maybe it’s best not to linger on that thought.

With a sigh, Stiles gets up to change out of his oversized Adidas t-shirt and comic-style Batman pajama pants and into a regular t-shirt and light, stone washed jeans. He leaves the room and gently descends the stairs, landing at the bottom in time to see Jackson pulling the Chinese food out of its paper bag on the dining room table. He must have been lost in thoughts longer than he was aware if the delivery was already there. “Hey,” Stiles greets softly.

Jackson smiles. “Hey. I thought we could eat on the couch, watch something. Maybe that comedian we like, what was his name?”

Stiles furrows his brows in confusion. “You don’t like stand up comedy.”

He shrugs and hands Stiles a container before heading into the living room with his own. “I like some of them. You know who I’m thinking of. That british one that would piss off the feminists.”

He thinks for a moment as he sits down. “Oh, Jimmy Carr? With the one-liners?” Stiles doesn’t bother to explain why his “piss off the feminists” assessment was wrong, or why he doesn’t think that should be the basis for a comedian being enjoyable. It wouldn’t matter anyway. So when Jackson confirms, he puts the special on, sinks into the couch and lets himself enjoy.

By the time Matt and Danny show up, the show is over, the food is long gone, and the brownie batter is baking in the oven. He’s being mostly ignored, but he didn’t really expect anything else, even with Jackson’s new...pleasantry kick. For the most part, he sticks to the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he mindlessly scrolls through Tumblr, giggling--he’d recently found a blog for incorrect Avengers quotes and had gone on a search for as many incorrect quotes blogs as he could find--while he waits for the brownies to finish baking.

Every so often he’ll screenshot a post and text it to Scott, but he has a feeling that his best friend doesn’t truly appreciate them the way Stiles does.

The time passes pretty quickly regardless, and when the timer rings, Stiles pockets his phone and grabs oven mitts. He pulls the brownies out and sets the pan on top of the stove, smiling at the heavenly scent that fills his nostrils.

“Hey Jackson, you guys want your brownies a la mode or au natural?” he calls, opening the freezer to check out the options. The brownies need to cool and the ice cream needs to sit, it’ll save time if he does both at once.

He pulls out the container of chocolate ice cream (hey, it’s a classic for a reason) just as Jackson confirms that he does, in fact, have some taste when it comes to dessert, and closes the freezer, turning around to a figure right in front of him, making the tub slip out of his hands with a startled gasp.

“Fuck, Matt!” he hisses. “You scared the shit out of me.” He moves to bend down and pick up the ice cream, but Matt only steps closer, backing Stiles up against the fridge, trapping him on two sides.

“Whoops,” he says, entirely unapologetic. In fact, he almost seems pleased, if the smirk playing on his lips is any indicator.

“Can I help you? Perhaps you got lost on the way to the bathroom? First door on your right, remember?” Stiles prides himself on being able to act calm when Matt starts up. His little taste of freedom -- not giving in. Jackson will blame him no matter what, look down on him despite not taking part in the Matt’s little game, and he will  _ always _ be the one to take the fall for it. He once toyed with the idea of playing along, being the cheater his one and only claimed him to be. Maybe with a better person, he would have. But giving in to Matt just meant a different evil, not a lesser one. Dealing with Jackson is difficult, but at least it’s familiar; he knows where he stands. “It’s cool, man, I forget the layout of my best friend’s house all the time. Nothing to be ashamed of, really, it’ll be our little secret--”

He forgets to continue when hands grip his hips and sharply tug him forward, dissolving the inches of personal space he’d had a second ago. His anxiety spikes at the contact. “You talk a lot,” Matt notes, as if no one else had ever noticed or bothered to mention it. Stiles doesn’t get a chance to respond before he continues. “You know what he says about you, right? Nothing but complaints. Too jumpy. Too talkative. Too...unfaithful. Even your cooking is mediocre.” Stiles bristles -- he isn’t a five star chef, but Jackson used to rave about his cooking, and he’s only improved since then, given that being a nineteen-fifties housewife is all he’s allowed to be. Despite his pride in his cooking skills, he chooses to focus on facts when he responds.

“I’ve never once been unfaithful,” he says softly, but firmly. No room for argument.

Matt moves his head forward, his lips landing right next to Stiles’ left ear, his breath ghosting over it when he speaks. “Doesn’t seem to matter. So why bother?” Without giving him a chance to respond, Matt takes Stiles’ ear lobe between his teeth, sending unwanted chills down his neck. He tries to pull away, but his back is already flush with the fridge.

He’d punched Matt once, back when the game was still new. Jackson’s response to violence against his friends on top of his reaction to the “cheating” was simply not worth it.

“Jackson is your friend,” he tries, but it doesn’t matter. It never has.

“Yep,” Matt agrees plainly before moving his head to bite down on Stiles’ bottom lip, which come  _ on. _ Stiles could appreciate a good biting kink, but Matt really needs to chill out. He pulls back a couple of inches and Stiles does everything to exude defiance. 

Matt pulls away completely and for one glorious, shining moment Stiles thinks he’s won. But when he looks up to see Matt walk away, he locks eyes with Jackson and he knows the battle isn’t his. Honestly, it never was.

His breath comes heavy for several minutes after Jackson settles back in the living room with his friends. Eventually, he swallows his feelings and quickly heads to his bedroom, melting ice cream long forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy Carr is hilarious, and I personally think he does the gross and offensive joke thing well. I'm a big ol' SJW but I love him. He has a special on Netflix called Funny Business that I highly recommend if you like that type of comedy :)
> 
> I actually had planned more for this chapter, but I finished the scene and it was already a drop past my usual length goal and I couldn't seem to get a good transition in...so next chapter should continue where this one left off. Hope you enjoyed!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goal is about 6 pages in Google Docs, and this is about 9. So enjoy the extra length!

The door closes with a soft click and Stiles is met with silence. He walks to his bed on shaky legs before climbing in and situating himself under the soft covers, his harsh breathing obscenely loud in the empty room.

This is bad. It was bad before, but this...this is  _ bad _ .

Oh god, Jackson’s gonna kill him. Matt’s probably sitting there right now, talking about exactly how Stiles had seduced him just by existing. Not that Jackson needs the push, but it certainly helps.

Fuck. It wasn’t even a sexual thing, Stiles is 98% sure. It was nothing more than a power play, and once again Stiles is going to be the one to deal with the fallout.

He has to fix this. But how?

Shit,  _ breathe, Stiles _ , his brain helpfully supplies.  _ Can’t come up with a plan while you’re hyperventilating _ .

What would his dad do? What would Derek do?

A soft gasp escapes his lips as he scrambles in his pockets for his phone until he’s looking at the bright screen to land on “Allison’s” contact info. His heart pounds in his ears as he taps the ‘text’ button, the blank chat staringly mockingly back at him.

What can he say? It isn’t like he’s Derek’s favorite person right now. He seemed pretty pissed when Stiles kicked him out that morning, and he definitely isn’t buying the whole clumsy act. It had always been a weak excuse, but what else did he have? Chances of getting violently mugged even once is low, but consistently? A statistical impossibility. He isn’t in high school anymore, he can’t blame it on lacrosse or bullying -- suddenly developing a propensity to bang into cabinets is, ridiculously enough, the most believable option. 

Still, Derek was mad because he wanted to help, and Stiles had lied to his face again. It’s possible the detective has lost all interest now, but Stiles doesn’t believe it. Maybe talking to him will fix things.

Besides, Derek’s already suspicious, so as long as he doesn’t blatantly admit to anything, whatever he says won’t change anything. The original plan had been to steer him away from that line of thinking, but that definitely isn’t possible anymore, and maybe...maybe it’ll help, to not have to be so careful all the time.

He drafts about a dozen awkward messages before settling on a simple ‘ _ Hi _ ’, following it up with ‘ _ It’s stiles _ ’ when he remembers that Derek doesn’t know his number yet.

Staring at his phone makes the time go extra slowly, and in the minute it takes Derek to respond, it feels like ten has passed.

‘ _ Oh. Hi, _ ’ comes the reply and Stiles’ heart sinks. Maybe Derek does hate him after all.

‘ _ Still pissed at me? _ ’ he types tentatively.

The text comes so quickly Stiles can’t help but believe it. ‘ _ I was never pissed at you, Stiles _ ’.

‘ _ Good thing too, cause getting pissed at a Stilinski only leads to trouble and a saddening lack of pie _ ,’ Stiles replies, feeling so relieved that he can’t help the smile growing on his face.

‘ _ Pie? _ ’

‘ _ Didn’t you know? Stilinskis are bakers. Well, my mom was, and I kind of took the title after she was gone. Someone had to fatten up the sheriff, after all. _ ’

‘ _ Actually, I did not know. I do love a nice baked good, though. _ ’

Stiles snorts. What a dork. ‘ _ Lemme guess, you buy bear claws with your coffee. _ ’

‘ _ I’m offended that you think I buy my coffee. And I’ve just googled what a bear claw is and I have to say, almond paste doesn’t appeal to me. _ ’

‘ _ Detective! Are you implying that you con all your neighbors out of coffee? _ ’

‘ _ Only the cute ones. _ ’

Stiles’ face warms as he reads the message, trying desperately to decipher it because there’s no chance in hell Derek meant that to sound the way it does. Despite knowing this, his heart momentarily catches because damn if he couldn’t remember the last time someone had actually properly flirted with him.

He must spend too much time in his head, because before he can even begin to figure out a response, three more texts pop up one right after the other.

‘ _ That was weird. I’m sorry. _ ’

‘ _ I was trying a thing, it obviously didn’t work. This is why I don’t talk to people. _ ’

‘ _ Rewind. I only con the sweet neighbors out of coffee. Cuteness is irrelevant. _ ’

He presses his lips together to fight a smile, wondering if Derek realizes how little he’s helping himself. He decides to take pity on the man and types out a response before his phone gets overrun with frantic backtracking. ‘ _ That’s good, if you went by cuteness I’d be your only target. Let’s be real, though, I’m adorable, and no one else would live up anyway. _ ’

‘ _ Who am I to argue with logic? _ ’

Stiles doesn’t know how to respond without sounding like an idiot, so he ever so smoothly changes topics. ‘ _ Do you like memes? _ ’

There’s no emojis, but Stiles still gets the feeling Derek is rolling his eyes behind his screen. ‘ _ Come on, Stiles, I can’t be *that* much older than you. _ ’

‘ _ Well, I’m barely 25, and you’re...what, 40? _ ’

“ _ I’m 28! What the hell, there’s no way I look 40! _ ’

Stiles snickers as he texts, ‘ _ I know, i just wanted to see you splutter~ _ ’

‘ _ You...Ugh. Okay. Yes, I like memes just fine. I’ll be honest, though, I feel very old whenever I lose track of the new ones. They go so fast now. _ ’

‘ _ You’re really not helping the whole “not an old man” case here. _ ’

‘ _ I’ve got nothing to prove. _ ’

In lieu of a proper response, Stiles opens up his pictures and sends a few memes in varying styles, grinning happily when Derek sends back a positive response. He’s mid-text telling Derek to look up Paint on YouTube when the door opens and he hastily shoves his phone under his pillow, playfulness gone as he watches Jackson close the door and turn to him, leaning against the door with his arms crossed over his chest.

Stiles waits. He’s not sure how long, but he doesn’t want to anger his boyfriend further by saying the wrong thing, so he sits quietly, nervously fingering the blanket covering his legs. His phone buzzes beneath his pillow every so often, but he ignores it, until the vibrating becomes more persistent and he realizes that he’s getting a phone call. Jackson finally speaks, and his voice sends icicles through Stiles’ blood.

“You gonna answer that?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, i-it’s probably not important. I can call them back later.”

Jackson eyes him for a few seconds before pushing off the door and walking over until he’s right next to Stiles. He shudders at the closeness as Jackson reaches around him and pulls out the phone from under his pillow before pulling away and eyeing the device. “I didn’t know you and Allison spoke outside of Scott.” It’s said conversationally, but Stiles wonders if there’s something deeper, if he’s suspicious.

Instead of answering his unspoken question, Jackson swipes across the screen, silencing the buzzing before dropping the phone in the drawer of Stiles’ nightstand.

A few more minutes of silence and Stiles breaks. “Why?” he asks, cringing at how his voice breaks.

“Why what?” he asks calmly, and Stiles bites his lip, his nerves rising.

“Why...why do you let Matt do...all that?” When Jackson raises an eyebrow instead of answering, he continues, “He comes onto me, and you always get mad at me and not him. He only does it to rile you up, you know.”

A shrug of his boyfriend’s shoulder and Stiles knows he isn’t getting the answer he wants. He almost wants Jackson to just get on with it, start the punches so he doesn’t have to hear whatever cruel thing is about to leave his “lover’s” mouth.

“I know. He doesn’t do it with anyone else, though. So, I wonder, what the fuck are you doing to pique his interest?” Jackson spits, and Stiles blanches.

“Me?! This is on him, not me, he’s psychotic! God, I can’t believe I even entertained the idea that you could possibly be on my side!”

In an instant, Jackson is on top of him, pressing his back into the mattress with a hand squeezing his neck. Stiles’ eyes widen impossibly in fear and his hands scramble to Jackson’s forearm in an effort to free himself.

The pressure isn’t enough to completely cut off his air supply, and some small part in the back of his brain knows Jackson isn’t trying to kill him, but it’s drowned out by his need to  _ getoutgetoffgetoutgetoff _ \--every attempt to breathe is weak and choked, making previously unheard noises as he attempts to gain a proper amount of oxygen.

“You know what your problem is, Stiles?” Jackson growls, his voice dark and feral and if Stiles could get more scared right now, he would. Instead, he feels tears escape his eyes and travel down his face into his hairline. “You think you’re so damn innocent, well let me tell you something. Everything bad that has ever happened to you is  _ your damn fault _ . You talk back, you get hit. You play your little mind games on Matt, shit happens, and then I happen. Hell, even your dear ol’ dad gave his life just so he wouldn’t keep coming home to your sorry ass. One day, those ridiculous friends of yours are gonna see it and they’ll abandon you too, so it’s about time you recognized your place.”

The grip loosens but doesn’t leave and Stiles gulps in lungfuls of oxygen, promising to whatever deity may or may not exist to never take advantage of his ability to breathe properly ever again.

“You can hate it all you want, but I’m all you have in this world,” Jackson continues, “so keep your mouth shut, do what you’re told, and maybe, just maybe, things will start working out for you again.”

The weight is removed as Jackson gets up. Stiles’ breath comes in heavy and shaky as he listens to drawers open and close and Jackson says something about staying the night at Danny’s. He stays quiet, his mind racing, until he hears the bedroom door open and whispers, “You loved me once.”

Stiles doesn’t think his heart can shatter anymore, but true to form, Jackson surprises him once again. “Yeah. And look where that got me.”

He stares up at the ceiling for a long time, thinking about nothing, and about everything.

*

Derek wanted to be surprised when Stiles texted him--they hadn’t exactly left on great terms that morning--but he also knew enough about people in his situation to recognize what was happening, even if he was usually an outsider in the situation.

So he went with it, enjoying the conversation. He hadn’t meant to flirt with his “cute” comment, but when Stiles didn’t respond, he realized that was really the only thing it could be. So he backtracked. And had fun. He forwarded the pictures Stiles sent him to Laura, unable to stop himself from thinking how much she would love the cute guy next door, and found himself smiling whenever his phone beeped with a new message.

To say he’s confused when the most recent text devolves from talking about a YouTuber to a string of unintelligible letters would be accurate. He knows about keysmashes, and he’s pretty sure he knows when they’re appropriate, but he is admittedly behind, so he merely texts back, ‘ _ What? _ ’ and waits.

When he gets no response, he starts to worry.

After four texts and three unanswered calls, his anxiety is peaked and he’s pacing his living room, his eyes fixed on his phone, which taunts him with its silence. After what feels like hours, he taps a different contact and holds the phone up to his ear.

“Hey, partner,” Erica answers after three rings, “what can I do ya for?”

“I am seconds away from marching over there and getting arrested for breaking and entering,” he hisses.

“This about your little neighborly crush?”

Derek does  _ not _ have time to correct her and remind her that he most certainly does  _ not _ have a crush, so he moves on. “We were texting, and then out of nowhere, his message turns...incoherent and then nothing! Radio silence, he’s not answering my texts or my calls.”

“Have you tried calmly knocking on their door?”

“The boyfriend hates me. I’m sure if he sees me it’ll only be worse,” he grumbles, clenching and unclenching his free hand in an attempt to calm down.

Erica hums across the line. “You know, it could be nothing. It’s late, he could have just passed out on his phone.”

“Doubtful.”

“Derek,” she sighs, her breath crackling in his ear. “This isn’t like you. You barely know him. I know I said to be his friend, but I’m starting to think you can’t handle even being acquaintances while this is going on.”

“I’m not exactly known for my cool demeanor when it comes to abuse, Erica,” he hisses back.

“No, but you’ve made this personal. That’s bad.”

“Erica--”

“Look, Der, I’m sure your boy isn’t any worse off than he usually is. Not much of a comfort, but he’s handled himself this long, he’ll be okay one more night. So get your ass to bed, go to sleep, and if he hasn’t contacted you by the end of tomorrow, I’ll check on him myself. Deal?”

He stays silent for a long moment before loosening his muscles and sighing. “You’re right. He’s probably fine. I’ll… Damn it. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She says her goodbye and he ends the call before flopping onto his couch.

She’s right, he’s way too invested. There’s no real reason to be -- he sees these cases all the time, he knows how to distance himself by now. Unfortunately, he knows exactly why Stiles got to him in the first place, and he knows how he stayed there.

Reluctantly, he gets up and heads to his room to collapse in bed. Sleep eludes him for hours, which only makes him that much more angry when he’s woken up at three AM to his doorbell ringing incessantly. He throws off his covers and stomps out of his room, calling, “Jesus fuck, I hear you!” as he heads down the stairs. He’s very prepared to throw a shitstorm at whatever monster thinks it’s okay to continuously ring someone’s doorbell at three in the goddamn morning, but his anger dies like the flame on a suffocated candle as soon as he flings open the door.

Stiles jerks his hand away from the doorbell like he’s been burned and looks at Derek with wide eyes. He looks...Jesus, he’s never described anyone like this, but  _ haunted _ .

“Stiles, what--” he starts, but is clueless as to where to go from there. He eyes the person in front of him and it registers that the guy is soaked, his clothes clinging to him awkwardly and his hair sticking to his forehead, and Derek belatedly realizes that it’s pouring. He reaches out, but Stiles takes a step back and his breathing quickens so Derek pulls his hands away, opting instead to step to the side to invite him in.

His guest enters with a small smile and stands in the foyer, staring at his shoes.

“Wait here, one second,” Derek instructs softly before heading to his room to grab dry pajamas, stopping momentarily at the linen closet to pull out a towel. He heads back down and sees Stiles perched on the floor, his back to the door and his knees pressed to his chest, and Derek approaches him slowly.

“Hey,” he says softly, and smiles softly when Stiles looks up at him. He holds up the clothes. “Do you wanna change?” Stiles shakes his head, so Derek sets them next to the stairs before cautiously kneeling in front of him. “Can I?” he asks, pointing the towel at his head, smiling when he nods. He reaches forward and gently starts rubbing Stiles’ hair dry. When he’s satisfied that it’s as dry as a towel will do, he drapes it around Stiles’ shoulders. “You sure you don’t want to change out of those wet clothes?” He shakes his head again. “Alright. Gimme a minute, okay?”

He doesn’t want to leave him alone, but if he’s not going to dry off, he has to at least warm up, so Derek fills his kettle with some water and heats it up while he grabs a mug and a hot chocolate packet.

When the drink is ready, he brings it out and hands it to Stiles with a “Careful, it’s hot,” and receives a grateful smile in return. When the mug seems secure, Derek lowers himself to the floor next to Stiles, close enough for the other to easily seek contact if he chooses. 

“You, uh...you wanna talk about it?” he asks, but Stiles ignores him, choosing instead to blow at his drink before taking a small sip. He frowns.

“Did you make this with water?”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “Yes? What else should I have made it with?”

“Milk,” Stiles says matter-of-factly.

“Milk?” he balks. “The powder won’t melt into the drink if you use  _ milk _ .”

“You heat it up first, dummy.” Stiles rolls his eyes, but his tone and the quirk in his lips betray his amusement.

“You...heat it... _ What _ ?”

Stiles snorts into his drink, his shoulders shaking lightly with laughter. “I have so much to teach you, young padawan.” But he takes another sip of the cocoa and Derek counts it as a win. 

They sit in silence for a long time until Stiles places the empty mug beside him and pulls the towel tighter around himself, like some kind of support blanket. The quiet stretches on so long that Derek almost jumps when Stiles’ voice hits his ears. 

“Why do you do it?”

He looks over at Stiles, but the other man is staring resolutely at his knees. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “You could die. Isn’t there anyone in your life worth not dying for?”

Derek tilts his head slightly. “Stiles--”

“Why wasn’t I worth not dying for?” Derek makes to speak again, but Stiles barrels on. “Why was dying better than coming home to me?”

Derek watches him quietly for a while, trying to work out what to say. Stiles isn’t crying, and Derek can only guess at whether that’s better or worse. “Can I touch you?” he asks softly, and wraps his arm around Stiles’ shoulders to tug him close once he nods yes. “I met your dad once.” Stiles’ eyebrows furrow, but he stays silent, so Derek continues. “I grew up here, actually. I went to boarding school though, so I didn’t really know anybody. In a stupid attempt to make friends here during summer break, I joined a...less than nice crowd who convinced me to help them vandalize the library. I got caught, and the others ditched.

“I remember sitting in the sheriff's office, thinking I was done for. My parents were gonna kill me, if anyone pressed charges I’d have a criminal record, all that jazz. But he didn’t. Your dad let me go, but first he told me something about you. I don’t really remember what he said, but I do remember one thing: he loved you more than anything. He risked his life every day so that you could grow up and never worry about yours.”

Derek glances at Stiles when he doesn’t say anything, feeling pleasantly surprised to see a small smile on his face. It fades after a moment and Stiles asks, “Is that why you’re so angry about...me and Jackson? Cause you liked my dad?”

He shakes his head and looks away again. “Actually, I didn’t know who you were at first. I got mad because of my sister.”

“You mentioned her this morning,” Stiles says softly, and Derek nods.

“Yeah, Cora. Her husband. We all knew what was happening eventually, but she just kept up the lie. I tried everything I could to help her, but she insisted she was fine.” He draws a shaky breath,  _ stay calm, damn it, he needs you to be calm _ . “I thought it would work, that one day I would get her out of there. Next thing I knew, I was watching him being sentenced for her murder.” Stiles stiffens and Derek rubs his hand along his arm soothingly. 

“I see her in a lot of our cases,” he continues. “Someone will have her hair, her eyes, her smile…” He wets his lips and looks back at the person in his arms. “Most of all, she had a good heart. Anyone could see it. I… I saw that in you right away, and I knew I couldn’t let it happen again.”

“So,” Stiles starts slowly, “you see me as your sister?”

“At first, yeah. Your personality is way off, though,” he chuckles and revels in the smile it gets him from the other. “I latched onto your situation because of her. I stayed because of you.”

Stiles shifts and Derek’s arm falls back to his side as Stiles turns to face him, his eyes wide and searching. Derek’s not sure what he’s looking for, so he keeps his expression relaxed until Stiles leans up and within moments, he feels the soft press of lips on his.

There might be a protocol for what to do when an abuse victim shows up on your doorstep and kisses you, but Derek’s brain has fizzled out, so he stays still.

It’s chaste, and only lasts a few seconds, but Derek’s heart is pounding in his ears by the time Stiles pulls away. He swallows and the smaller man looks down at the floor, smiling sadly. “I’m sorry. I know you’re not interested and there’s probably some code against it, I just...it’s been so long,” he ends softly.

“Since you kissed someone?” Derek asks when he thinks he can speak clearly.

“Since I kissed someone who actually cares.”

It’s a bad idea. A terrible idea, really, and Derek knows this. But the part of his brain flashing warning signs is drowned out by everything else, so Derek gently takes Stiles’ chin in his hands to lift his head before leaning down and stealing his lips with his own.

It’s deeper than the first one, but no less gentle, their mouths opening against each other in an attempt to get closer, tongues gently reaching out as hands latch into hair and clothes.

He loses track of time, lost in the feeling, and when they pull apart, he rests his forehead against Stiles’ and closes his eyes. 

_ Erica was right _ , he thinks, laughing softly.  _ I’m screwed. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Kiss(TM)! We're approaching the climax, folks, I've got a plan and everything. I'm gonna try to write a softer chapter next, give us all a break from the intensity. Guess we'll know if that works in a week or two, haha. 
> 
> Also, I never got up to Cora in the show, or any of Derek's family past season 1, so if I'm entirely wrong and Cora is actually totally evil in the show, just bear with me, please. I needed this for Plot.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this one!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek have a chat over coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have literally zero excuses as to why this took 5 weeks, I just...couldn't get through it? I wrote like half in one day, then took forever to get through a few sentences, then the rest last night, so really it was done in two days that bookended a month. But it's here! And my beta liked it, so I hope you like it too! <3

“You did  _ what _ ?”

“Keep it down,” Derek hisses, glancing around to make sure no one started paying attention to them after his partner’s little outburst.

Erica’s staring at him, eyes wide and lips parted in shock. Maybe he should have waited to tell her until they weren’t in the precinct anymore, but he’d arrived late for the first time since, well, ever, and she wouldn’t take “I overslept” for an answer.

“You hooked up with your neighbor crush!?”

Derek grimaces at the choice of words. “You make it sound sleazy. We kissed. It was...fuck it, it was wonderful.”

She closes her mouth and watches him carefully, and he stays strong under her gaze, though his resolve starts to crumble the longer it goes on. Thankfully, before he breaks, she speaks.

“What are you gonna go next?” she asks, and he can hear every hidden meaning in her words as if she’d spoken them out loud.

_ His situation isn’t normal. _

_ Was it a one-time thing? _

_ It’s going to be hard. _

_ You know better. _

He breathes deeply through his nose, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I don’t know. Maybe...maybe this is it. Maybe it’s the push he needed to finally get out of there.”

“Maybe,” Erica says, but she doesn’t look hopeful.

“I really like him,” Derek admits softly, refusing to pay attention to whatever look his partner is throwing his way.

“I know,” she says simply. “But first and foremost, he’s gotta leave the boyfriend.”

“I know.”

“And then he needs to heal. You can’t just pounce as soon as he’s single again.”

“I know.”

It’s silent now, save for the sound of pen on paper as Derek mindlessly fills out paperwork, until Erica comes across one of their cases and groans before launching into it, taking Derek’s mind off Stiles for a while.

*

It’s a few days before Stiles contacts him again. Derek had tried a few times, but Stiles’ responses had been short and didn’t really open him up for conversation. So when he suddenly gets a teasing text, the smile that lights up his face is really not even his own fault.

‘ _ I know you prefer to steal your coffee from your cute/sweet neighbors, but what if said cute/sweet neighbor buys it for you? There’s a Starbucks not too far away. _ ’

The only time Derek is free when (ugh)  _ Jackson _ is at work during his lunch break, so the next day he finds himself waiting in (also ugh)  _ Starbucks _ , two coffees perched on the small table in front of him.

He’d gotten there early, because, according to Erica, he’s a dork, so his coffee is already half gone (despite how awful it tastes) when Stiles walks in. Derek raises a hand to get his attention, dropping it when Stiles’ eyes land on him with a smile.

“What’s this?” he asks as he takes the seat across from Derek, eyeing the coffee in front of him suspiciously.

“Coffee.”

Stiles glares at him, but it’s half-hearted. “I told you I was buying!”

Derek shrugs a shoulder and takes a sip. “You took too long,” he says simply.

Stiles continues to glare at him, but it loses any heat when his mouth starts twitching as he fights a smile. “Fine. What’d you get me?”

“Hell if I know. I figured you liked sweet, and I drink mine black, so I let the barista pick.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, the smile he had been fighting now lighting up his face. He takes a sip and nods happily. “Caramel. They know their stuff.”

Derek nods, though more mechanically than Stiles, and takes his own, much larger sip.

“I wanted to thank you,” Stiles says softly, his fingers trailing along the condensation on his cup anxiously. “I know it was late, you were probably sleeping, and I’d just yelled at you, like 24 hours earlier. It was...really kind of you.”

Derek looks down at his own drink, keeping his face from warming up by sheer power of will, and grunts noncommittally. “I would have been an asshole to leave you out in the rain. Not being an asshole is not the same as being kind.”

Stiles sighs, a small, fond smile tugging at his mouth. “Whatever lets you sleep at night.”

“You mean, unlike you?” he teases, smirking when Stiles gives him a look of utter betrayal, which is once again ruined by the upturn at the corners of his mouth.

“I  _ just _ apologized for that! You know what, I’m glad I didn’t buy the coffee. You don’t deserve it.” He ‘humph’s and takes a drink as Derek turns the betrayal look on him.

“Et tu? You’d deprive me of coffee?” Stiles raises his chin and sniffs in a show of mock derision and Derek snorts a laugh. “Whatever, I don’t even think this crap can actually be called coffee. It’s  _ burnt _ . Who burns coffee?”

“Starbucks does. I think it’s, like, their gimmick or something. Ooh, you should have a gimmick!” He clasps his hands in front of himself and looks at Derek the way he imagines an excited 4-year-old might look.

Derek exaggeratedly rolls his eyes before downing the last of his drink and setting the cup down on the table. “Stiles, I’m a detective, not a chain coffee shop.”

His shoulders slump and he presses his lips together in disappointed pout and, damn it, Derek is supposed to  _ not _ be thinking he’s cute right now. “Fine, what about a catchphrase?”

“You’re not giving me a catchphrase.”

“You’re not my mom!”

“Fine, you can give me a catchphrase, and I will proceed to never, ever utter it.”

Stiles flops his head onto the table with a loud groan. “The guy from CSI: Miami has a catchphrase.”

“Oh, does he?” Derek presses, not bothering to hide his amused smirk as he leans forward with his arms on the table.

“Yes,” Stiles whines, lifting his head back up. He pauses at the sudden close proximity, his cheeks tinging the faintest of pinks, before leaning back and composing himself. Derek clears his throat and does the same. “Yes,” Stiles repeats. “He says something cool, dramatically puts on his sunglasses, and then finishes the cool saying. Why can’t you be as cool as the CSI: Miami guy?”

“Oh, yeah, Erica told me about that guy. Said he was super lame. The New York one is apparently much better.”

“Lame?” Stiles gasps, looking scandalized. “Though I can’t exactly argue with her other announcement, the New York version is way better.”

“You watch a lot of crime shows?” he asks curiously.

Stiles shrugs. “I watch a lot of everything. Not really much else to do.”

Derek hums and takes a drink slowly. Maybe this is his in. Maybe he can use fictional crime to shed light on Stiles’ boyfriend’s actual crimes.

No, he decides. Not right now. Way too risky, Stiles is like a deer right now, so easily frightened away. One wrong move and Derek will blow everything. Instead, he smiles. “I actually tend to find cop and crime shows annoying. They’re usually so inaccurate, and when it’s not, it’s boring to watch.”

“What a lovely way to view your livelihood,” Stiles says teasingly. Derek snorts.

“I didn’t get into this field because it’s  _ fun _ . It’s a good thing I’m not a doctor, because I love House.”

Stiles’ eyes light up and he leans forward excitedly. “OMG,” and Derek absolutely rolls his eyes at Stiles actually saying the letters O-M-G, “best. What’s your favorite episode? Mine is the shooter one from season five.”

“Not a bad choice,” Derek agrees. “I’ve never thought about it, but I do really like the one where he’s in another hospital as a patient and figures out that ‘brain dead’ patient is actually locked in. Don’t ask me the season, though.”

“Ooh, that’s also season five!” Stiles is practically bouncing in his seat and Derek stifles a smile. “Ugh, season eight was such a disappointment. Scrubs did the same thing, just great season after great season, and then bam. Terrible final season. And no, that season about the interns was  _ not _ part of the show.”

Derek raises his eyebrows in amusement as Stiles speaks. “I don’t think I got quite that far.”

“Dude, no! They even had an episode dedicated to House! Tell me you saw that.”

He shrugs a shoulder and Stiles groans, banging his forehead on the table. “You are such a disappointment.”

“Hey, you were excited with my knowledge just a minute ago!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles sighs dramatically before leaning back in his seat. His attention turns back to his coffee and Derek merely sits and watches him patiently for a while.

“You told me Jackson asked you to prom,” Derek says eventually, and Stiles face is graced with a fond smile as though reminiscing before meeting Derek’s eyes. He nods. “I’d like to hear your origin story,” he prods, “if you’d like to tell it, that is.”

Stiles stares him down as though trying to figure out a puzzle before relaxing in his chair. “Well. We went to school together since forever, and we kind of hated each other. He was the entitled bully and I was the easy target who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. You know, like every single TV show about high school kids ever.” He smiles and Derek returns the gesture with a soft chuckle. “Then at the beginning of our Junior year, we got paired up as project partners for the year, and of course I thought,  _ well that’s my luck _ . Getting paired up with Sir Silver Spoon, of course I’d have to do all the work myself every time. I was… weirdly wrong. Turned out he was actually a really hard worker, and while material objects were there with a snap, he worked hard for anything to be proud of.

“When we got together to work on our stuff, I talked a lot, ‘cause that’s what I do, and at some point he started to seem less pissy about it and more… I don’t know, fondly exasperated? Honestly, I thought it was all my imagination, because he was  _ Jackson Whittemore _ , no chance in hell he could not hate me. Then junior prom has everyone all abuzz, and one day Jackson comes up to me looking what the untrained eye would call annoyed and aggressive, but after being paired together for months, I somehow knew he was nervous.” Stiles nibbles on his bottom lip in what Derek thinks is either nerves or nostalgia, he can’t be sure. “He asked me to prom, which…  _ whoa. _ Jackson wasn’t gay, right? I thought it was a joke, and when I realized it wasn’t, I figured it couldn’t hurt. I was painfully single, and Jackson was probably gonna be prom king, it could really only help my street cred. Plus, I had kind of started enjoying being around him at that point, even if I had never admitted it out loud.”

He laughs softly, his eyes alight. “Aaanyway, we went. He knocked my expectations out, didn’t act remotely ashamed to be seen with a guy, let alone the biggest loser in BHHS. We danced, we kissed. It was picture perfect.”

Derek startles when he sees the other’s eyes start to water, his breath hitching. He reaches a hand forward, unsure, letting it rest in front of Stiles but not touching him.

“I-- I loved him-- so much,” he says through hitched breaths. “We shouldn’t have even gotten along, but then he was  _ everything _ to me. It was the greatest thing I’d ever had, and then I lost my dad and I had no nowhere to go, and I guess living with me makes people go crazy.”

“Stiles,” Derek starts softly, not certain what he even wants to say, but knowing he should say  _ something _ .

“He  _ hates _ me,” Stiles whispers hoarsely, and Derek feels his heart crumbling in his chest as tears fall freely down Stiles’ cheeks, either forgetting that they were still in public or simply not caring. “I should have left after the first bruise, or the first hospital trip, but he was… wrecked. He hated himself for it, and I thought…” He brings a hand to his mouth and lets out a muffled sob. “I thought it meant things would be better. That he still loved me, and people don’t hurt people they love.” He drops his hand to his lap and swallows thickly, his shoulders shaking with quiet cries.

Derek watches him silently, waiting to see if he’ll continue, open a case,  _ something _ . Eventually, Stiles reaches a hand up and rubs at each eye with the heel of his palm, sniffling the last of his meltdown away. After a few minutes of nothing but Stiles’ slowly evening out breathing, Derek tries to speak again.

“Stiles, I--”

“I’m gonna tell him,” he interrupts, raising his eyes to meet Derek’s. “I’m gonna tell him about the kiss.”

Derek feels his whole body tense and he reaches his hand closer, but Stiles still makes no move to take it. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he says calmly, despite the blaring alarms attacking his senses.

“I have to,” Stiles says, looking down again. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do after, but… I need to do this. For me. I can’t… Fuck, I can’t explain it, but I do.”

“Not alone. Please. He’s violent, he’s volatile, and you don’t know how he might react,” he pleads, despite his gut telling him it’s a lost cause. His mind is made up, but Derek won’t let this happen again. He failed Cora already, he won’t go down  _ again _ without a fight.

Stiles snorts, finally raising his head to look at his companion with a raised eyebrow. “You want me to bring a police escort to tell my boyfriend I cheated on him?”

“Anyone, Stiles. It doesn’t have to be a cop, it doesn’t have to be me, just… He’s less likely to do something if you’re not alone. If he gets angry, he’ll have to wait, and either he’ll calm down or you’ll have a chance to get away.”

Stiles licks his lips and give a wry smile that sends a cold chill up Derek’s spine. “Come on, Derek. Let’s be real. I’m always alone.” He stands up without giving Derek a chance to respond, turning around and tossing a two-fingered salute over his shoulder before leaving the shop with a stunned detective in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT SORRY
> 
> Next chapter shouldn't take as long, it's the climax, I know what I wanna do and I've been excited to write it since before this chapter haha


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I meant to post this yesterday, but my cousin's bar mitzvah distracted me, oops.
> 
> Fair warning, this chapter gets pretty graphic. My friend told me to add a mild gore tag for it, i don't know if it really applies here, but better safe than sorry imo :)
> 
> EDIT: i had a <s>dumbass</s> whoopsie moment and long story short the ch5 comments are gone to the void :( i'm sorry, friends

Stiles doesn’t love making cookies. That tiny bit of perfectionist in him always gets annoyed that he can’t get them all the same size without a scooper, and the impatient part of him doesn’t want to deal with the scooper. But Jackson loves peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, and Stiles needs to put Jackson in a good mood.

So. Cookies.

He’s also cooking chicken marsala, because fancy food tickles the silver spoon in Jackson’s ass-- err, mouth. 

Of course, it’s not the fanciest dish Jackson’s ever had, not by far, but considering Stiles’ specialty is fried mac and cheese balls, he figures it’s a win.

He’s just turning the flame off and preheating the oven when Jackson gets home, and Stiles calls out a greeting from the kitchen. It’s a few minutes before Jackson joins him, suit jacket gone and tie loosened, and reaches around Stiles to lay a hand on his hip as he surveys the food. “Marsala?” he questions and turns his head toward the chef. “You hate touching raw mushrooms.”

Stiles shrugs, keeping his reactions nonchalant as he feels a small spike to anxiety start to hit. He hasn’t hurt him since the night of the kiss, and Stiles had taken that as a good sign, but knowing his boyfriend that could change with no warning.

Jackson hums before leaving the kitchen, and Stiles breathes out with relief. Giving himself a little shake, he serves the chicken onto two plates and brings them out the dining table, placing one in front of Jackson and the other at his own seat before sitting down.

He asks him how work was, and Jackson tells him about the case he’s just won. The retelling is cocky and arrogant, and should remind Stiles of the teenager he fell for, but there’s something different he can’t quite put his finger on. Something seemingly minor but altogether personality-changing and instead of being washed up in reminders of what he had, he’s doused with the cold realization of everything he’s lost.

He can’t tell him about the kiss. He’ll think it’s about someone else.

Stiles needs to leave, and Jackson needs to know it’s entirely because of him. 

He excuses himself to the kitchen to put the cookies in the oven and take a few shaky breaths, because  _ fuck _ he was going to do it and it was the most terrifying decision on the world.

Not tonight, though. He needs a plan, needs somewhere to go. He can’t just indefinitely crash somewhere, so he needs a job, or at least job prospects.

First, he needs to calm down. He takes out his phone and unlocks it, smiling at the worried texts from Derek he’d ignored before opening up their chat and typing.

‘ _ I’m not telling him. I know what I need to do, but I need help. Can I drop by tomorrow? _ ’

He watches the screen and it takes only seconds for a new bubble to pop up.

‘ _ Absolutely. _ ’

Stiles smiles and pockets his phone just as the oven timer startles him by beeping. He didn’t realize he’d been standing there so long, but he shakes it off, and grabs the oven mitts to pull the tray out and lay it on the counter to cool.

Satisfied that he’d timed it well, he heads back into the dining room and grabs their plates to wash before the sauce dries up and makes his job difficult. After that’s done and his hands are dry, he pokes a cookie to check the temperature before moving them all to a plate and bringing them to the table with a soft “tada!”

He doesn’t need them anymore tonight, but they’re already done. May as well enjoy.

Jackson takes a cookie and gives an approving hum as he chews. “Been a while since we’ve had these,” he comments, and Stiles swipes his tongue out the corner of his mouth to grab the crumbs before nodding.

“Figured it was time,” he says simply, and Jackson hums again before wiping the crumbs off his hands.

“I have something for you,” he tells him and Stiles looks at him in surprise. Jackson hasn’t given him a random gift in years.

“Oh?”

Jackson reaches into his pants pocket and flicks something at Stiles, who catches it gracelessly before opening up his palm to stare at a small gold ring. If he had to guess, he would say it would probably fit on his finger, but he certainly isn’t going to try it on. “Jackson, what…?”

“You’ve been living here for years, the only change would be government recognition. It’ll make things easier in terms of insurance and things like that. Legalities, don’t worry about it.”

“You want to marry me… for legal practicality?” he asks slowly, and Jackson shrugs.

“My dad brought it up, I figured it was a good idea as any. He’s gonna write up the prenup over the next couple of days, take care of things with the company, make sure you’re not part of that. You don’t want the stress.”

Stiles stares at the ring for longer than what’s probably socially acceptable before he speaks, because wasn’t this just the proposal of his dreams? “Can…can I think about it?” he asks, for no other reason than to stall because he can’t say  _ yes _ , but he’s not ready to explain himself after saying no.

After a few moments of silence, he raises his eyes to look at Jackson, noticing with a shiver his clenched jaw and hands. “You don’t need to think about it, it’s simple.”

“Jackson--”

“It’s already happening anyway, all you need to decide is if you want a courthouse wedding or our backyard.”

“No.”

His eyes flash with anger and Stiles flinches back in his chair, but stands his ground. “No?” Jackson echoes, lowering his voice dangerously.

“No,” Stiles repeats. “Why would you even want this? You don’t even like me, why would you willingly tie us together like this?”

“I do like you,” he says and Stiles scoffs. 

“Bullshit! Do you not remember our last little  _ tiff _ ? ‘You used to love me,’ I said? And your response was ‘Look where that got me’? Slipped your mind already?” he hisses.

“Yeah, it got me a whole lot of headache because you can’t just do what you’re fucking told! I could’ve kicked you out ages ago and I didn’t.”

“Oh, yeah, the real test of love, not forcing someone into homelessness,” Stiles snaps sarcastically. “Forget all the times you beat the shit out of me all the time, or fucked me after I said I didn’t want to. Forget that you didn’t let me finish school or get a job and kept me entirely dependent on you so I had no choice but to take it. Forget all that, right, because you let me take up some bed space in exchange for being your fucking housekeeper, punching bag, and sex doll.” He tosses the ring at Jackson, letting it clatter on the table before falling flat. “Fuck you. I’m leaving.”

He moves to stand, but is forced back into his seat by a harsh hand on his shoulder. He looks up warily and his stomach flips in fear at the fury in his boyfriend’s eyes.

“You wanna try that again, Stiles?” he growls, but Stiles sets his jaw and stares him down.

“You heard me, you piece of shit.”

He cries out when a fist connects with his cheek snapping his head sideways before a hand grabs his chin and forces him to look at those eyes again. “One last chance,  _ honey _ .”

Stiles spits and watches with smug satisfaction as the saliva drips down to Jackson’s eyebrow. “And I kissed someone else,” he tells him out of sheer spite.

Jackson wipes the wetness off with his sleeve before his face twists and he slams Stiles’ head down against the table, smirking when he lets out a scream almost loud enough to pierce through the walls to the outside.

He grabs Stiles by the hair and pulls him up to lean back in his chair before tugging at his tie to undo it and shoving as much as he can into Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles’s eyes widen and he reaches up with a shaky hand to pull it out, but Jackson grabs his hand and places the palm on the table. He watches fearfully as Jackson grabs the knife from his dinner--and  _ why didn’t he clear up the fucking utensils, fuck _ \--and slams it point-first, straight through Stiles’ hand and into the wood of the table.

His probably ear-shattering scream is muffled by the tie, but nothing stops the hot tears from spilling out of his eyes and trailing quickly down his cheeks.

Jackson repeats the process with his other hand, and Stiles starts sobbing, breathing in heavily through his nose to make up for the oxygen being blocked from his mouth.

“I’m leaving for a bit, but I’ll be back. If you knew how to listen, I could have just told you to stay put, but you wouldn’t have. So really, this is your fault.”

He walks away and Stiles barely hears the front door close over the sound of his heartbeat. For a moment he just sits, listening to his own choked cries and trying to calm to dizziness in his head. Concussion, perhaps, which means staying awake is important, but despite the pain he’s not sure how long consciousness will be an option while stuck.

He has to get out.

He tugs slightly with his left hand to see if there’s any give, only for a muffled cry that should have been a scream to escape as the knife hits new spots. No leverage, so new plan. The knife doesn’t seem to be too deeply embedded in the wood, so point Stiles. He tries to steady his breathing, but after a minute decides he simply doesn’t have the time, so he takes a deep breath through his nose and tugs his hands upward, sliding them slowly up the knife with a sceam-- _ and fuck, that fucking hurts like fucking bitch holy shit I can’t do this _ \--not letting himself stop for more than a moment until he hits the handle. He can barely see through the tears, and he can’t seem to stop the sobs that shake his body, but he can’t focus on any of that right now. With another shaky deep breath, he pulls his hands up and the knives pull free from the table, making Stiles almost hysterical with relief. His hands are useless, but they’re not trapped anymore. He can escape.

He stands up quickly, ignoring the scrape of the chair and running to the front door, and thank god for whoever decided handles were fancier than regular door knobs, because all he has to do is push down with his arm and give a little pull and he’s  _ free _ .

The best laid plans, he realizes as the door swings open and he’s pushed back onto his ass, his breath quickening as his eyes meet Jackson’s.

“Naughty, naughty boy,” someone behind him says before Matt walks in, kicking the door shut behind him.

Jackson’s eyes trail Stiles until they land on his hands and he snorts. “Really?” he mocks. “Probably would have hurt a lot less if you’d just waited for me to get back and pull them out.”

Stiles scrambles to stand, but Matt presses his boot to Stiles’ chest and pushes him down against the floor, his back hitting the hardwood with a  _ thud _ . Another shoe connects with his side and Matt smirks when Stiles’ head hits the floor as his throat works around a scream.

“See, Jackson and I decided that he would handle the... _ consequences _ of your actions. I get to just have my fun.”

The pressure on his chest leaves and Stiles’ eyes flit between the pair, trying to figure out who’s going to make the next move. He sees Jackson’s leg raise just in time tug his own legs to the side so his foot connects with the floor instead of bone. Matt laughs.

“Aww, you’re fighting. That’s cute.”

Stiles whips his foot out at Matt, feeling a prickle of satisfaction when he connects with his ankle and the other falls to the floor. It’s short lived, though, as he gets another kick to the side and he’s pretty sure he feels something crack. “God, just fucking do what you’re told, Stiles,” Jackson hisses.

“I like the fighting,” Matt disagrees, sounding entirely uninjured. “It just makes it all the more fun.” He crawls over to Stiles, slotting himself between his legs and hovering over him, everything about him making Stiles feel like nothing more than prey.

He reaches a hand up and tugs the tie out of Stiles’ mouth, tossing it to the side before slotting their lips together and ( _ no, no, fuck this, fuck you _ ) Stiles swings his hands, knowing if the knives connect with Matt it’ll hurt like a bitch, but it’ll also hurt Matt and what other chance does he have?

Hands grab at his wrists before any contact is made, slamming his arms down and pinning them to the floor.

“Did you forget there’s two of us?” Matt whispers against his lips and Stiles wants to throw up. He snaps his teeth and Matt recoils a couple inches before laughing again. “Oh, so fun.” He kisses him again, his hands wandering until they reach his fly. He passes his tongue through their lips just as he tugs the button and Stiles bites down on the organ hard enough to taste blood. Matt pulls away with a cry, and before he can regroup, Stiles screams as loud as his lungs will allow.

Jackson slaps a hand against his mouth, cutting him off, but Stiles knows he was too slow. If someone was going to hear, they did.

“You bitch, if you thought you were getting out of this in one piece, you better think again,” he hisses, and Matt fixes Stiles with a glare as he wipes blood off his bottom lip with a thumb. 

“Whatever,” he says, his unaffected tone ruined by the pained slur of his words, “not like I need your mouth for this anyway.”

He reaches for Stiles’ pants again, stopping with a jerk when the door slams open.

“Freeze, BCPD!” And Stiles wants to cry with relief as he closes his eyes, because Derek is  _ here _ . “Raise your arms and stand up.”

The pair hesitate, but Derek must have his gun out or something, because after a few seconds, his arms are released and the body trapping him is gone.

“Stiles, are you okay?”

He opens his eyes and looks at Derek, whose eyes keep flickering to him as though he can’t manage to keep them trained on Jackson and Matt but he has to anyway. The detective does, in fact, have his gun trained on the pair. He closes his eyes once more.

“Oh, just peachy,” Stiles replies around deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heartbeat.

Stiles doesn’t pay much attention after that. The adrenaline is wearing off, so the pain is only increasing, but he hears shuffling and talking and Miranda rights before a hand gently strokes across his cheek. “Stiles?”

With far too much effort, Stiles opens his eyes to see Derek kneeling beside him, his face pinched with worry. “The ambulance will be here any minute. It looks like you took a tough hit to the head, so I need you to stay awake until they get here, okay?”

“It hurts,” he manages on a whine.

“I know,” Derek responds softly. “I’m right here.”

True to his word, it’s barely two minutes before he’s being hauled onto a stretcher and into an ambulance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for climaxes! I expect one more chapter and an epilogue, which will either be posted separately or together, depending on length.
> 
> I actually didn't love how this chapter came out. I liked the basis of it, but I felt like the writing was off? That maybe it went too quickly? But my beta and my friend both said it was good, so I'm just gonna trust them instead of making myself crazy lol


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